Behind the Checkered Apron
by METMA Mandy
Summary: Everyone thought Molly Weasley was a sweet, kind woman. But what if she was hiding something? I bring you this suspenseful, original, glimpse of Mrs. Weasley's past, present, and future. Meet the REAL Molly Weasley! Winner of the Golden Quill Award f
1. Behind the Checkered Apron

A/N: I was sitting in the car, and this idea just struck me. It isn't a bit like my other fics, to be fair, but I think it is extremely original, and good. Much thanks to Me Myself and I for encouraging me. Enjoy, and please review every chapter!  
  
Disclaimer: I am not J.K. Rowling, and I don't own any of the Harry Potter characters depicted in this fic. However, all of the characters you don't recognize are mine, and I hold all rights to them. (Well, not legally, but please don't use them.) That said, read on!  
****  
  
Everyone agreed, Molly Weasley was the perfect woman. Her friends remarked that her home, while small, was always clean; Not a speck of dust could escape her cheerful glance. Savory smells were always pouring out from her busy kitchen, and she was seldom seen without an black and white checkered apron tucked behind her neck and around her plump figure. It was rumored among the community that her sitting room was modeled after the centerfold of 'Witch Weekly.'  
  
Molly doted on her seven children, as well. She could rattle off any number of facts about them; When she was so inclined, she could list every single one of her eldest child Bill's ex-girlfriends, dating from his first at age 11. She knew exactly what time of day or night her offspring were born, down to the minute. She could list shoe sizes, favorite foods, and allergies, all with a brilliant smile and her deep brown eyes sparkling.   
  
Arthur Weasley, her husband, was every bit as important to her, if not more so. Molly would anxiously sit by the door when he was running late, and was always ready to make him feel better after a stressful day's work. Only a brief glance at the two was required to know they were very much in love even after years, many of which had been rollercoasters of pain and fear.  
  
Yes, Molly was always happy. Always ready to comfort and to hug, always grinning. Her sharp words to her children only exhibited more clearly that she loved them, but would not accept any misbehavior. Few mothers can pull off discipline without making their argumentative teenagers angry and standoffish. Even her close friends failed to unravel her technique, but all could see the results -- a Gringotts employee, a dragon tamer, a high ranking ministry official's assistant, her twins starting a company at age 18, and her youngest son the close friend of the famous Harry Potter. All seven Hogwarts students.  
  
Everyone agreed, Molly Weasley was the perfect woman.  
  
Except she wasn't.  


****  


  
Molly Weasley hadn't always been poor; In fact, she was born into a family rolling in wizard gold. No one was ashamed of their clothes; They were always freshly pressed and hot off the runway from Salem, the clothing capital of the wizarding world. Her ears never turned an embarrassing shade of red in a store, as her pocketbook was always full. An old, yet well maintained mansion was her residence, covered in twisting green vines and tiny flowers, the color of the ivory clouds above. The carefully paved walkway to the front door was lined with yet more blossoms, which Molly carefully avoided as she skipped. Flinging open the door, she shouted "Hullo!" and sat down on the leather couch (32 shiny galleons).  
  
"Hey, Moll!" her father yelled back from his back room. Mr. Douglass was a prim and pressed businessman type father, but he always made time for his daughter. She was the only child, and got everything she wished. Unlike many similar instances, however, she hadn't become spoiled and rotten.   
  
"How was your day, Molly dear?" Mrs. Douglass, like her husband, had a suave look about her. Her auburn hair was neatly shaped into a bun, and although she had borne Molly, she still kept a 'girlish figure.' She walked over and hugged Molly hello, inquiring about her day spent with friends. Molly answered, and like her future family was to become, the Douglass's were a picture of a normal, well adjusted, happy family.  
  
At least, that was how they appeared. But as we know, appearances can be deceiving.  
  


****  
  


"Ro-on!" Molly Weasley called to her son, aged fourteen, one summer day. "Could you de-gnome the garden, dear?"  
  
"Ugh...do I have to?" Ron groaned.  
  
"Now, I don't want to hear that tone from you, mister! Get to work!" Eyes sparkling, Molly ordered her son out of the house so she could get a little peace and quiet.  
  
"Geez, fine." Muttering his black thoughts, Ron headed out, and soon satisfying thumps were heard, ensuring that he had begun the task. Mrs. Weasley sat down at the table and casually sipped a cup of coffee, pouring in a splash of milk and savoring every mouthful. She grabbed 'The Daily Prophet,' sure that she had earned this break, and slowly folded the newspaper so that the headline was visible. The coffee she had so leisurely sipped was frantically spewed out, and trembling, she scanned the rest of the article.  
  
"New information surfaces on Douglass case..." She whispered aloud the headline, realizing all that it meant. Realizing all that it would take away from her. Knees buckling, she stood up.  
  
"Mu-um! I'm done!" Ron stuck his head in the door and awaited the affirmation of his mother that he could go.  
  
But only silence greeted him.  


***  
  


A/N: Ah, the tension mounts! What WAS it that made Molly get so nuts? Where did she go? Answers to all these questions and more about the Douglass family will be revealed in the sequel! That is, if anyone wants it. PLEASE review, because I write better when I'm getting some feedback and I know people are into it. I'm pretty sure this is the first time this idea has been written, so tell me what you think and what you guess is going to happen. :) I promise you, you WILL get un-confused someday. Viva la METMA!  
  



	2. The Face in the Fire

A/N: Thanks for the great reaction to part one! I really do love this series...anyway, in this part we learn more about the Douglass's (heh, that looks funny!) and a bit of what will happen to Molly. Enjoy!  
****  
  
"Run...run...just a bit further...breath, one two three, breath, one two three..." Quickly, Molly Weasley fled her home, running full speed down the smooth warm asphalt of the lane. Her shoes, not made for running, announced her presence to the world. Clackety clack, breath, one two three.  
  
As her eyes had glimpsed the fateful news piece, Molly didn't lose her wits. Oh, no. She'd done this before; only a moment of panic, and then she was calm and collected. She was an expert. 'But then again,' she thought, as she gasped her way along, she wasn't a teenager any more -- forbidden sundaes had been eaten, running had been pushed aside. Suddenly annoyed with the way it restricted her heaving chest, Molly tore off her checkered, black and white apron, and left it fluttering serenely to the ground behind her. She wouldn't need it anymore...  
  
Molly hurriedly searched for a good place to apparate away. Apparation, you see, takes large amounts of magic; Molly knew this. She also knew it could be traced, and she wanted to leave no tracks. 'Just run a bit,' she told herself, 'run a bit, and soon, soon, you'll be free.'  
  
***  
  
"Did she get the money? What?! Why not?!" Her father's strong, angry voice floated over to Molly from the sitting room as his voice rose several decibels and the fire seemed to flicker nervously. Disturbed by the noise from her peaceful reading, Molly arose and tiptoed to the room, keeping silent as a grave, her socks on the hard linoleum the only sound.  
  
"...I don't need to hear that now! Bugger to him!" Molly cautiously stuck her wren brown head around the hall corner, and glanced, curious, into the room.  
  
The face in the fire, Molly realized, was her parents' good friend, referred to as Johnston by all. He'd often come over for tea and chat, usually to the point where Molly began to fidget with boredom. He'd always talk about business, she recalled with a shudder, and the seemingly never-ending numbers made her head go numb. There were also times, though, that her parents had tactfully removed her from the room; by suggesting homework, telling her to play with her friends, and yes, even the dreadfully obvious "Go take a bath." Yet now in the fireplace, Johnston's usually tomato coloured beefy face had blanched into a sickly white. Molly idly wondered if someone had poured a bucket of glue on his head, it was that noticable.  
  
"I'll get it, er... somehow, Mr. Douglass, sir. G'day to you." Johnston's ashy face hurriedly departed from the fireplace.  
  
Glimpsing Molly anxiously peering around the corner, Mr. Douglass's tight face relaxed and he spoke. "So, Moll, how are you?"  
  
***  
  
Everyone in the Weasley house was looked pained, like they'd bittten massive lemons. Even Fred and George finally quit their half-hearted teasing and resembled morgue attendents.   
  
"Ron, what HAPPENED?"  
  
"I told you all I know...she sent me outside to degnome the garden, and when I came back, she was...gone."  
  
Ron sighed, and stared dejectedly at the wall at the Weasley Clock, where Molly's pointer had spun around to "traveling".   
  
"Dad, reckon it'd say travelling if she was in danger?" Ron's voice, weak with anguish, squeaked.  
  
Arthur Weasley set his face and he gently caressed the checkered apron they'd found down the lane during their search. "I don't know, Ron, I don't know..." Arthur closed his eyes, and ran his shaking hand through his hair, suddenly seeming aged by ten years.  
  
"Do you think it's time to alert the ministry?" Percry, always ready for action, proposed.  
  
At Mr. Weasley's assent, all attention was turned over to reconstructing the situation for the authorities. In the heat of their worry, the newspaper was overlooked, still wide open on the wooden tabletop.  
****  
  
A/N: Ah, the tension mounts even more! :) Now you guys are REALLY confused, no doubt. But please, include your theories in the review! I'd love to see them, and who knows, maybe you'll be right! At any rate, PLEASE review, as I'd LOVE to get some feedback on this. Love it or hate it, just review!!! (I wonder if I've said review it enough times??) :) Viva la METMA! As I leave you, I just HAVE to include my fave BNL quote "Absense makes the heart grow fungus!" ^^  
  
  
  
  



	3. Missing, Found, and In-between

A/N: Ah, chapter 3 arrives! You get to find out where Molly went, a few clues as to her crime, and more about how the poor Weasley family is holding up. Enjoy!  
  
****  
  
Cornflower blue was the sky, and its stately presence seemed to make each green tree stand all the taller; each delicate purple flower all the more lovely. A gentle wind ruffled the trees, their leaves being softly caressed. Wildflowers were everywhere in the clearing, but it was on a particularly large clump that a figure suddenly appeared.  
  
According to witnesses, Molly Weasley hadn't been missing more than three days, but if anyone would chance to see her, they'd remark that this was a woman who'd been on the run a good while.  
  
Molly's wren brown hair, always perfectly kept in a bun and held perfectly in place with potion, had transformed into a grizzled rat's nest. She had always taken pride in her clothes, even if they were years old. Old they might well be; but dirty they were never. Yet now her clothes were caked with a layer of grime and mud.  
  
Her face, too, seemed different; sharper. The soft motherly lines around her mouth now were determined. This same mouth, always grinning, now twisted into a different sort of smile. The smile of a criminal who knows she's won. Who knows she's fooled them all.  
  
Still grinning that twisted smile, she began to walk up to the cottage concealed in the nearby grove of trees. Her leg muscles, now tight as a marathon runner, pulled uncomfortably; but Molly had made it so far, and she'd be damned if a mere twenty meters would keep her from her goal.  
  
She stepped up to the familiar grass walkway to the door. Molly knew it well; it had been her family's hide-out for several years. Here, she'd learned the truth about her parents. And from here she'd run away, leaving the foul memories alongside the lovely flowers. She half-laughed. It was ironic, she thought, that such a beautiful, beautiful place could house such evil. To her, every last smiling lavender flower was a sinister reminder, as if each one harbored guilt.  
  
Finally, exhaling slowly, she knocked on the musty door gently. The heavy door slowly, oh, so agonizingly slowly, opened to reveal a graying man, no longer tall, but bent with age.  
  
"...Dad?"  
  
And the knowing flowers just laughed.  
  
***  
  
Everyone agreed, the Douglass's were one of the richest families in town. It took but one glance at the lovely, Victorian style mansion they lived in to destroy any fleeting doubts about their wealth. The family business of selling tea had not been weakened by this generation, but rather strengthened by the new addition of the brisk, cool-headed Mrs. Douglass.  
  
At least, that was what was believed. But only Johnston, who was the family accountant, knew the true tale.   
  
The Douglass business was going down the tubes. Sales had been slacking dramatically and tempers were running high. Secretly, several meetings had been conducted and different methods tried, but it seemed as if nothing could save the business Mr. Douglass's grandfather had begun. Perhaps Douglass Tea had become unpopular; its logo was hardly chic. The Douglass's had always depended more upon the secret blends they used than advertising. But in an age of commercials and quantity rather than quality, this was a fatal flaw. Even Mr. Douglass's last ditch attempt at coming up with enough money for the next shipment failed; in his anger he lashed out at the person who had been unable to get the money. Johnston.  
  
"Johnston..." In a flash of understanding, the stately Mr. Douglass got his first bad idea. He knew how he would keep his family afloat. And the scapegoat was someone nobody cared about, someone who would appear to all as the culprit. The Douglass's would never be suspected. "Yes," Mr. Douglass chuckled to himself, "it's perfect."  
  
Johnston, poring over documents in his home, little realized the trap had been set for his downfall.  
  
***  
  
Black coated Ministry workers coated the Burrow, searching every last corner for a clue of Molly's whereabouts.  
  
"No sign of a break in, sir. Oddly enough, there not a speck of evidence of a struggle..." the chief investigator trailed off, and Ron, overhearing, felt his head go numb.  
  
"No sign of a struggle..." Ron gave a strangled laugh. Oh, this was rich. His good, sane mother gone without reason, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes here was trying to convince him she hadn't been kidnapped.  
  
"If it had been kidnapping, we would have had a ransom note by now," said the investigator in an undertone, answering Ron's unasked question. "All we could find as a clue was this." Tightly clenched in the man's muscular hand was a dirty, torn piece of fabric. Even from across the room, Ron could make out the telltale checkers.  
  
The investigator little knew how much this bit of cloth would affect the family, but his face displayed his sympathy to the family who was obviously shocked. Ginny, only thirteen years old, hugged her knees and cried in a corner not covered by the ever-present yellow police tape. It was truly a sign of the anguish felt by all that none of the seven remaining family members even took notice.  
  
Suddenly, a sinister thought implanted itself in Ron's red head, and his stomach lurched with a sickening coldness. 'What if she...meant to leave us? What if she hates us?' Losing his self control, the tall, strong, teenage Ron gave in to a cascade of salty tears. Patting his back while staring blankly into space was Arthur. He seemed to have taken the hit the hardest; before, he was seen as an irresolute mountain. But as this situation had shown, even mountains can crumble.  
  
Truly, this was a family who missed their mother.  
  
Many kilometers away, her family was the last thing on Molly Weasley's mind.  
  
*****  
  
A/N: Hopefully you are beginning to get un-confused now. And if you aren't, never fear! All will be revealed in time. I'd love to see what you guys think is going to happen -- please include all theories in the review which hopefully will be allowed by ff.n. *ahem* (If ff.n won't let you review, just e-mail it to me at Leven5@aol.com.) I hope you like the series! Viva la METMA!  
  
  



	4. The Plan Unfolds

A/N: Chapter 4 arrives! Much thanks to Sangeetha, who helped me with the finer details of the plot. Anyway, in this chapter, you meet Molly's father, learn more about the "trap" set for Johnston, and see the Weasley's plan of action. Enjoy!  
***  
  
"...Molly?" Mr. Douglass's voice was uncertain, shaky as an unbalanced scale. Molly could hardly blame him for not recognizing her; it had been years, and goodness knew she looked different. She was no longer a sprightly ten year old, and was probably thought dead, crushed by the cruel ways of the world.  
  
Molly's dirty, scratched head nodded slowly, and her eyes brimmed with tears. The scale tipped; she had passed the point of return.  
  
"It's been so long..." Mr. Douglass, too, had changed. Had Molly not known this would still be his residence, she wouldn't have recognized him. Hiding had taken a toll on the once proud, debonair businessman. His handsome, dark chocolate hair now was gray as the ash in his cold fireplace. As Molly viewed the slumped, stooping man, she could scarcely remember the man he had once been, his back and morals straight.  
  
Molly sighed. It was remarkable what a bad decision could do to a person. Eluding punishment had damaged him more than jail possibly could. He reminded Molly of the house in which he resided -- old, run down, and removed from the world. Nothing and no one could change that, she reminded herself. Not that Molly hadn't tried.  
  
The long-lost daughter looked over the broken man's shoulder into the dark, musty house. "Where's Mum?" she asked, half knowing the answer; only half caring. If it was Mr. Douglass's head bent even more, and Molly had her answer. She wasn't particularly surprised. The loss of the comforts of life had not gone over well with that aristocratic woman. She had probably done it mere weeks after Molly'd left.  
  
Glancing into the house, Molly could almost see why living here would drive the woman to suicide -- a single glimpse make her fingers start twitching for a broom. But no. That was not why she was here.  
  
"Dad, they've found more evidence. Enough to send you...and me...to jail, if they caught us." Molly's words did not have the expected result on her father. He just sighed. "Dad...listen, please! I had to leave before...I couldn't stay. I couldn't sleep in this house, every figure in the dark screaming accusations. I knew if I got to Hogwarts I could make a life for myself."  
  
"And did you?" Mr. Douglass's voice was void of emotion. As a businessman in what seemed like a former life, he had learned to consider every sentence before unleashing it.  
  
"Well, yes. I have a husband...seven children," Mr. Douglass's eyes bugged in spite of himself. "But when I saw the article, it evaporated before my eyes. I knew my kids would wonder if I was a terrible person."  
  
"Much the same as you wonder about me."  
  
Molly's head bowed, and she seemed ashamed. "Yes. I had to...had to leave, before they could find out."  
  
But Molly didn't realize that by leaving, she had made them wonder even more.  
  
***  
  
The orange flames danced hungrily over the remains of Douglass Tea Company. The building was unrecognizable in this state, huge chunks consumed by the ravenous fire. Mere timbers were keeping it up, and in a matter of moments they to joined the mass of burnt rubble on the hard ground.  
  
"Arsony. Must've been. There are traces of gasoline all over the place." The chief firefighter gave his opinion. He looked distinctly ruffled next to the pressed constable; he hated to lose a structure to a fire. The kind man always felt as if he'd failed the owner. At least this time he had a culprit for the demolished building.  
  
"Goodness! But who would?" Mr. Douglass gave every sign of being alarmed. His eyes glazed over and next to him, his beautiful wife sobbed. Both the firefighter and the constable could see the traces of anguish at losing the place his family had called their office for years.  
  
"Lucky for you, we think we found him." The constable beckoned to a few men standing nearby. They grabbed a large, white-faced man, and flung him onto the dusty ground at Mr. Douglass's brightly polished shoes.  
  
Mr. Douglass's eyes flung wide and he gasped. "Johnston?" he cried, with a sharp intake of breath. The policeman noted, and would later testify, that Mr. Douglass acted completely innocent, while the chalk-faced Johnston floundered in his explanations, a fish out of water.  
  
"Johnston! No! What are you doing here?" Mr. Douglass's face was a picture of astonishment and disbelief. Yet it was nothing compared to what Johnston's face was about to become.  
  
"Y-you...y-you told me to come here. Said you needed gasoline for your car! I rushed over...quick as I could...filled up your tank. Then hurried over...just like you said!" Johnston's eyes raced back and forth and he ran his hand through his thin hair repeatedly, his hands shaking.   
  
"Is this true?" the constable asked, a flickering smile on his face. He'd been in his profession for two decades, and it was amusing to him to see someone so pathetically guilty try to make excuses.  
  
"No. I haven't any idea what you are talking about," said Mr. Douglass slowly, his brow furrowed. The constable smiled again. Yes, it was just as he had expected. Simple case. Greedy accountant burns down wealthy man's business. Only one question left.  
  
As Johnston raked his hands through his hair, the constable caught one. "You have gasoline all over your hands, sir. We have to take you under arrest."  
  
"But I told you! I was filing up Mr. Douglass's car...the gas leaked! Tell them! Why, oh why, won't you tell them?" It took two policemen to drag the still shrieking Johnston away.  
  
Yes, the case was simple. Easy. Obvious. But then, Mr. Douglass thought, he always had been a rather good actor.  
  
***  
  
Ron fidgeted. The house was deserted but for Ginny and he, the others scattered like dust to the police office. He and Ginny were thought too young, too innocent to come. Of course, Ron didn't agree. He'd been through more misadventures than the lot of them, with Harry as a best friend.   
  
The Burrow felt unnatural in its silence without his beloved mother cleaning, bustling, and cooking. He glanced around the room. It was a mess; everything seemed felled as if by a giant ax. An ax that was Molly's disappearance. Viewing Ginny's limp form in the corner, he trudged over and tapped her on the shoulder.  
  
"C'mon, Ginny. We may as well fix things up a little bit." Ginny didn't trust herself to speak, but nodded slightly, her puffy red eyes nearly matching her wild hair.  
  
"Where does Mu- where are the brooms kept?" Ron nearly choked on the word.  
  
Ginny finally opened her mouth. "In the attic, I think," she said in a hoarse whisper. And so the two journey up. Up past the stairs littered with clothing, up past the empty rooms of Percy, Fred, and George. Ron pulled gently on the cord leading to the attic. "Mind the ghoul," he reminded Ginny, trailing close behind.  
  
The attic was a completely unorderly place. Boxes were strewn hither and thither, and it generally looked a frightful mess. Ron crouched, as a teenager his size could not stand in the tiny room, and searched. Ginny, lacking the heart for it, sat on the dirty floor and began to examine the nearest box. Her trembling fingers unwrapped the peeling tape on the side, and she shone her lit wand into the darkness. Glimpsing a black bound book, she maneuvered it out and flipped through the first pages first with curiosity, and then with increased fervor.  
  
"Ron! Quick!" she beckoned, and pointed to the title page of the over thirty year old book. 'Molly Ludwig,' it read, 'diary.'   
***  
  
A/N: Haha! I always seem to leave you with a cliffhanger, don't I? Well, I'm terribly sorry, but I had to, you see. Anyway, you're starting to understand, aren't you? Or not. Please include all theories in your review...at the end, the person who is closest gets a chocolate frog! *grins* I'd love to know what you think. Please review, because I really worked hard on this, and a happy writer is a quick writer!   



	5. The Gears Begin to Turn

A/N: It's really starting to get interesting now! I absolutely love writing this, and I love that you guys are being great about reviewing. Thanks! A couple of you have been pretty close in your theories -- except there are a few things you couldn't possibly know yet. (Well, can't I have some secrets?!) Hope you like this chapter!   
***  
  
It rained. Massive drops crashed headlong into the roof, giving off a loud, incessant pattering. Molly ruefully thought she hadn't heard such noise since she'd let Charlie take drumming lessons. What a mistake that'd been. Shaking off thoughts of her family, she glanced out the window, and saw only a wall of water. It was as if a river had been turned upside down above the hut. Molly worriedly wondered if the roof would leak, but glancing over at her father put those fears to rest. He was smiling -- a great, enormous smile, the sort that radiates happiness, until everyone viewing it has to grin as well.  
  
Mr. Douglass was indeed very happy. When he had felt all hope was lost, that his dreams would never be fulfilled, his beloved daughter had returned. Had this been any other family, it would seem very sweet. But these were the Douglass's, and with them, nothing was ever how it appeared. Molly couldn't possibly know the true reason for the old man's elation.  
  
It had been almost thirty years since Mr. Douglass's wife had died. Thirty years of silence; of cold nights when hunger would keep him awake, the silvery moon his only companion. Mr. Douglass didn't suffer from physical hunger, as his pantry was stocked with food. No, it was a different type he needed to quench -- social starvation. There was no use denying this craving had taken its toll on the man. He had gone mad -- barking, howling mad, all thoughts bent toward cruel, yet comforting revenge.  
  
For who had put him here? Who had sentenced him to these horrid years of solitary confinement, staring at these same four walls? Who had sent him here, to a fate worse than death?  
  
Mr. Douglass's warped mind could only come up with one answer: Johnston. Johnston, who'd foiled his plan, been able to come up with evidence against his family, and sent them on the run. Johnston, his enemy.  
  
For years, thoughts of getting revenge on Johnston was all that was keeping Mr. Douglass alive. But without another to carry out his plans, (as he couldn't be seen), his careful, meticulous design lay unused in the back of his mind. But now, he thanked the god he'd not believed in for decades, he had been sent a messenger. One too confused, too misguided to think hard about an old, "broken" man's requests. Molly would be his puppet, yet again, and the evil cycle would begin anew. This time, he wouldn't make mistakes.  
  
Molly suddenly looked away from the window which she'd been staring out of and smiled softly at her father. "It's wonderful to see you again, even under these circumstances," she half whispered, half spoke.  
  
The aged, but still plotting trickster turned and gave a benign smile. "I'm very, very glad you've come."  
  
***  
  
The stone floor of the courtroom radiated icy cold. Molly shivered. Though only ten, she had a bit of knowledge of behavior in such circumstances, and she thought it best not to mention it. She filed into the dimly lit room alongside her mother and father. Molly could not help but notice that Mrs. Douglass clutched her hand with sweaty palms. Odd, thought Molly to herself. Her mother was always dry handed, even under pressure. Yes, very odd indeed.  
  
Molly took her place alongside her parents next a large, burly man who was to be the prosecutor in the trial. Although he didn't look it, he was the best lawyer in all of England -- the very best money could buy. The Douglass's, realizing how very important their victory was, had splurged their last few galleons on him, Mr. Judd. Their fates, and the fate of Johnston, rested on his strong shoulders.   
  
Molly's face must have shown her nerves, because Mr. Judd smiled over at her. Feeling slightly better, she looked around the room. Spectators filled the benches, and a row of standing men and women lined the back wall. Her stomach lurching nervously, she turned away and looked across the room at the defense. She could hardly believe what met her eye -- Johnston. Yet Johnston as he'd never looked before, so wild-eyed, so ruthless! Shuddering, she opted to look at the chilled floor. There, no eyes could follow her.  
  
A few hours later, Molly was still staring at that spot. It had several dots on it, she had realized about a half hour after she'd sat down. Counting, she had reached one hundred seventy-three when she heard her named called. Her head rocketed up, and she felt distinctly dizzy. Yes, her parents had told her she'd be called, prepped her on what to say -- but now that it was really happening she just felt ill.  
  
"Calling Molly Douglass to the stand." Knees trembling, Molly rose. Her father (who she secretly favored over her mother) gave her an encouraging sort of smile, and waved her up. As she had been daydreaming, the trial had been progressing steadily. A few witnesses had been called for the prosecution already, and now it was her turn.  
  
"Ms. Douglass, do you swear, before all present, to tell the truth?"  
  
Molly took a deep breath. It was okay. She knew the questions, knew her responses. She followed what her parents had told her to say. "I do," said Molly Douglass, little knowing those words would seal her fate.  
  
She knew her lines.  
  
***  
  
"Mum's diary!" Ginny exclaimed, her sorrow momentarily forgotten. "We can read it and find out what she's really like! Maybe we can even figure out why she's... why she's..." Ginny trailed off. "Anyway, we ought to read it." Ginny's eyes, red from crying, flashed in excitement.  
  
Ron crouched beside her, both staring at the little book. For such a tiny thing, small enough to fit inside Ron's hand, it had a huge amount of importance to the two children.  
  
With a tiny crackle of the spine, Ron turned to the first page, dated September the first, and began to read. 'Today is the first day of a new beginning. I am to be called Molly Ludwig now, after my favorite composer. Perhaps a new name will mean a new person...'  
  
"Weird," whispered Ron. "Didn't she say Ludwig was her maiden name? Definitely fishy." Ginny nodded, and the two began to read again. 'Just in case this diary falls into the wrong hands, I will only say this about my past -- I have no family. They died to moment I left home, and I hope to soon forget them.'  
  
Ron, flabbergasted, searched Ginny's eyes. She looked as confused as he. Come to think of, their mother never had spoken very much about her family. Ginny could remember a few times when her questions had gone unanswered, her mother seeming to drift away. She hadn't thought much of it at the time, but now... Ginny did recall, however, Mrs. Weasley mentioning her parents had died in an accident -- though she followed this with a quick, "and I don't want to talk about it. Go clean your room." The two stories didn't match up.  
  
Struck with a sinister thought, Ginny wondered aloud. "Has she been lying to us?" Her voice ended in a tiny squeak. She moved to turn the page, but Ron grabbed her shaking hand.  
  
"I think," he said, "that it's time to owl Harry and Hermione."  
***  
  
A/N: Interesting, isn't it? But you are starting to get the picture, eh? PLEASE review, I work really hard on this story, and I'd appreciate it. Thanks! (Of course, include all theories in the review.) Viva la METMA!  



	6. Twisted Testimony

A/N: I'm SO sorry it has taken me a long time to get this chapter out. Really, I feel awful. But I DO have an excuse -- I've been reaaaally tired and reeeeaaally busy with softball practices everyday, homework, and the horrors of middle school. ^^ Anyway. This chapter was by far the longest, and the hardest to write. (Not for that reason.) At any rate, you learn a LOT of stuff in the chapter. Enjoy!  
****  
  
The last few raindrops flung themselves mightily on the roof, but it was no use. The storm was over. Molly's internal storm seemed over as well. As the sun peaked out from the clouds, wrapping everything in a buttery glow, Molly sunk down more in her chair. In her new home. For better or worse, she was staying for now. For now, she reminded herself. Her father needed her; he was too old, too tired to continue living alone. Or so she told herself, unwilling to face the truth.  
  
On the other side of the room, Molly's father too was thinking about his dependency on her, but in a crueler way. Birds chirping merrily in the background, he made his move.  
  
"Molly?" he asked, almost lazily, "would you mail this for me?" He extracted an envelope from his back pocket. It was an ordinary, white, normal looking thing, and Molly noticed that the flap had yet to be stuck down. It waved temptingly in the breeze of the open door. There was no name on the front, only an address. Odd. Pasted to the right hand corner was a Muggle stamp.  
  
"A stamp?" she questioned. Although Molly had been raised as a Muggle due to her mother, it had been a very long time since she had seen anything from that distant world.  
  
"Oh, right... I forgot to tell you. I haven't got an owl, so you'll need to mail it in the Muggle village nearby. If it isn't too much trouble, of course..." he added, knowing his kind daughter wouldn't protest.   
  
Molly nodded curtly, and stepped out of the dark house onto the stone path. The bright sunlight forced her to squint, dark mountains sharply contrasted beyond. A breeze ruffled her hair, blowing it into her eyes. As Molly brushed it out of her face, the wind carried the envelope out of her hands. It seemed to give an ominous warning to abandon this mission.  
  
Bending quickly to retrieve it, Molly's eyes flicked again to the unstuck flap. "It wouldn't hurt to take a little look," she thought. Fingers trembling in excitement, she pulled out the contents.  
  
It was a picture; a very old, very faded picture. A little girl sat upright, a smile on her face. Her dark eyes caught Molly's immediately. Like big brown pools of chocolate, they grinned at someone off of the picture Molly couldn't see. In their beauty, the girl's eyes were haunting, and Molly, shivering, left them and turned over the picture. In careful block letters, someone had written, "I remember."  
  
Remember what? Her head too full of information, she shrugged the words away and turned the picture back over and locked eyes with the little girl again. She shook her head, remembering that the picture wasn't real. For a second, she hadn't been sure.   
  
Suddenly, struck by a sinister notion, Molly again stared at the image. For some reason, without a shadow of proof, something in the picture told Molly that those big brown eyes had been shut forever.  
  
***  
  
Molly remembered once she'd had to do a presentation in front of her entire class. She'd been extremely nervous that day -- shaking, biting her lip so hard it bled, and feeling icy cold to her very core. Compared to now, that day seemed a walk in the park. Molly fidgeted, her knuckles white as she gripped the courtroom seat. Mr. Judd paced a bit near the witness box, waiting for her to get situated. Smiling at her, he strode to the box and began.  
  
"How old are you, Molly?" he asked kindly.  
  
"Ten, sir." The sound was barely audible through her clenched teeth.  
  
"Such nice manners! Tell me, Molly, how do you know the accused?"  
  
"He was my parents' accountant and close friend," Molly whispered into the microphone.  
  
"Ah, yes. Tell me about your parents, Molly. Do you spend much time with them?"  
  
"Oh, yes. Lots!"  
  
"Is your father often late home from work?"  
  
"No, quite the opposite. I'm really close to him."  
  
The testimony continued in the same strain for a while, Mr. Judd trying to present to the court the character of Mr. and Mrs. Douglass, while adding an ill word about Johnston occasionally. Thus, he tried to persuade the jury that the Douglass's word should be trusted above Johnston's.  
  
Finally, he rested his case, and Molly heaved a sigh of relief. Perhaps this wasn't going to be so difficult, after all. But when the opposing lawyer said he'd like to cross-examine Molly, she felt the nasty feeling creeping back twice as strong.  
  
"Hullo, Molly." The defense lawyer, a Mr. Thomas Hopstone, had a voice that would bring a con-man to his knees begging for forgiveness. Soft, yet strong, it seemed to require a truthful reply. Molly immediately began to sweat heavily, a strange sight in the cold courtroom.  
  
"Molly, I'd like you to tell me a bit about the date of the incident. Where was your family at the time the fire broke out?" His voice cajolingly caressed her ears and tested her resolve. 'Come on, Molly,' she thought, 'you can do this...'  
  
"We were at Barney's Coffee Shop," she replied. It was half-true; while they'd been at the coffee shop when the fire broke out, that didn't mean the Douglass's had been there when the fire had been started.  
  
"Barney's ... that's the shop across the street from the Douglass building, isn't it?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"What did your parents do as they saw the building go up in flames?"  
  
"My father called the fire department." Also a half-truth.  
  
"Molly, the fire department records show the phone call to them was placed at 5:53 PM, nearly fifteen minutes after signs of the fire were visible. How do you account for this?"  
  
"I... I..."  
  
"Records at Barney's show your family ordered at 5:47. Expert witnesses have determined the fire must have been started around 5:40. Tell me, Molly, where was your family at 5:40?"  
  
"Driving to Barney's, of course." But Molly's' voice was weak and lacked the confidence she had hoped to inject in it.  
  
"Is that so? A witness saw you leaving your house at 5:00. Molly, Barney's is only two miles from your home. What took you so long to arrive there?"  
  
"Traffic," she choked out. "Traffic..."  
  
"Interesting, interesting. Interesting because there was no traffic accident that day, and you know it. The United Kingdom Traffic Association, who report every day's traffic, wrote, "...A good day for driving. No pileups or waits!" Interesting, too, that witnesses can account for my client's position at 5:40, but not yours and your families." Suddenly, Mr. Hopstone changed subjects. "Molly, what is your family's current financial situation?"   
  
"Objection!" The cry came from the prosecutors' desk and echoed through the room. The kindly Mr Judd leapt to his feet, shaking in fury. "I believe the witness is in no position to provide such information, your honour, and therefore the line of questioning is irrelevant.  
   
"Overruled," The elderly judge growled in return. "The Jury will observe that previous testimony states that company finances were a full family matter and often discussed together. It is your objection that is irrelevant. The witness must answer the question."  
  
Mr. Judd slowly sat back down, grumbling angrily about "Judges nowadays!" Mr. Hopstone, and the eyes of everyone else in the courtroom turned upon the ten year old as she attempted to stutter out an answer. All of the yelling and shouting was frightening her, and her eyes brimmed with unshed tears.  
  
"We are doing quite well for ourselves, thank you." Molly wanted to cry, but she was determined not to. Not in front of the jury members, who were looking more and more suspicious every moment. Not in front of her parents, whose eyes flashed in fear. Not in front of Johnston and his twisted grin.  
  
"Your accountant seems to think differently. These documents prove that Douglass Tea Company was about to go bankrupt at the time of the crime. The Douglass's profited from the insurance money on the building. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury: I propose to you that the guilty party is not Mr. Johnston, but the Douglass's!"  
  
Even before the verdict was read, Molly knew they had lost. She watched Johnston laugh and hug his lawyer, and tried to take comfort in her parents' assurances that it hadn't been her fault. She watched from shackles. Shortly after the trial, a policeman had placed the entire family under arrest -- even Molly. Yet staring into her father's determined brown eyes, she felt sure that her legs would know freedom again.  
  
***  
  
Ron jumped out of his doze as someone gave a loud rap at the door. Groaning, he stretched, and scratched his head lazily. Who could be calling at this hour? The wall clock showed it was well past midnight. Ron frowned, annoyed. The nerve of that caller! It was probably a salesman, and if they weren't careful they'd wake Dad and Mu--  
  
Memories of the past few days flooded back in a rush, and Ron's stomach cascaded over a waterfall of emotions. Numbly, he sunk back into his chair, trying not to notice how his legs were shaking. "Oh, no," he thought, "oh, no..." For a while, he had thought the events had been part of his dream. But this dream, this nightmare, was real -- and there was no way Ron could escape it.  
  
The caller knocked again. Steadying his legs as if he'd been at sea, Ron rose. "Coming!" he tried to shout at the door, but all that came out was a croaky whisper. It seemed this nightmare had not only stolen his mother, but his voice as well. It figured.  
  
Midknock, he flung open the door. Hermione, speaking rapidly to Harry beside her, accidentally knocked once more before realizing the door had been opened. Unfortunately, her fist landed on Ron's long nose.  
  
"Ouch," said Ron softly, unable to think of anything else. Hermione, upon seeing him, suddenly became mute, the sea of words evaporating. Mouth open and eyes wide, she quickly turned and waved at the parked car in the street.  
  
"Bye Mum! Bye Dad!" she shouted to the car as it sped away from the Burrow. Finding her voice, she began to talk. "My parents said I could stay for a few days, if it's all right, of course. Harry can too, his aunt and uncle were only too glad to let him go. We've both brought suitcases" -- she motioned to the full bags beside them -- "and, and..."  
  
When Hermione got nervous, she could often go on like that for hours. Harry rolled his eyes. Ron noticed those eyes, that had been deadened at the end of term, had changed. They shone with an angry glint that had never before been seen in his sea-green eyes. Harry wanted to do something; wanted to confront the demons hounding him. He was eager to help find Mrs. Weasley.  
  
"...Of course, I've been studying, and..." Suddenly, Hermione rushed forward to envelop Ron and Harry in a tight hug. "Oh, Ron, I'm so sorry, we'll find your Mum!" Ron suddenly became very interested in the brickwork of the porch, and Hermione and Harry pretended not to hear when he blew his nose loudly.  
  
Ron shooed them into the sitting room, where he and Ginny had brought the diary. It was laid out on a pillow, like a prized possession might be in a fancy house. Ginny, who was sitting staring transfixedly at the book, didn't even blush when Harry walked in. She didn't care about anyone but her mother just now.  
  
"What've you read sop far?" Harry asked, eager to begin. Ron handed him the book, and he read quietly, Hermione peeking over his shoulder and waiting impatiently for him to turn the page. Done, he handed the diary back to Ron. The redheaded teenager opened the diary to the next page and spread it out on the table for all to see.  
  
'September 6.  
  
Lavender as the softest sunset  
Longingly the blossoms wave to the mountains beyond.  
And hope for the day when they too can join the nimble sheep  
Narrowly missing the cliff as they jump  
Behind the rocks old as the sky -- for  
Even flowers wish to be free.  
Released from guilt bending, crushing, crippling!  
Removed from the hut at the base of the mount.  
Instead, they wait, and guard the monsters within.  
Soon the winds will change'  
  
"Wow," Hermione breathed, "I didn't know your Mum could write!" After the third line, she and Harry had placed a hand on the Weasleys' shoulders. They got the feeling the two needed support.  
  
"Neither did I," said Ron, his neck tingling. He, Ginny, and Hermione were ready to dismiss it as a beautiful poem, but Harry couldn't help but think her words were saying more. 'But what?' he wondered. Not able to shake the eerie feeling, he memorized the poem and resolved to continue thinking about it.  
  
Later, after a long night of reading, the four decided to go to sleep. Decided being an understatement -- Ron was yawning, Hermione kept nodding off, Ginny's eyes were drooping, and Harry's head, too, felt fuzzy. After making the beds, they retreated to their respective room, and soon loud snoring could be heard echoing throughout the house.  
  
Although Harry felt dreadfully weary, he shifted and rolled, unable to fall asleep. He kept thinking of Mrs. Weasley's poem, right in the middle of counting sheep. He recited it to himself again, and mulled over the words. Mountains ... sheep ... flowers -- all pointed towards a location. He halfheartedly wondered if the poem was about the place she had disappeared to. "No way," he thought. "Impossible."  
  
Yet, hoping against hope, he reviewed the lines again. They fit. Shaking in excitement, he wondered if he should wake Ron. Then, something pricked him, deflating his hope like a pin in a balloon. The United Kingdom was a big place, and hilly regions were everywhere. Harry felt like crying; the poem didn't tell him anything after all.  
  
But he was forgetting something, he knew, something else in the riddle he hadn't thought to pay attention to. Grabbing a piece of parchment and ink, Harry copied down the poem in the wand-light, looking for patterns in the words. "First and last words?" he muttered. "No, no..." Harry unfocused his eyes then refocused them, and he saw it. It was so obvious he wondered how he had missed it before. The first letter of each line, when read downward, spelled out LLANBERRIS, the lovely area next to the highest mountain in Wales. Harry remembered Dudley taunting him about it when the Dursley's had visited, telling Harry he'd have tossed him to the sheep. Sheep. It had to be right.  
  
Harry ran down the hall to Ron's room and burst in the door.  
  
"Ron!" he shouted, "Ron! Wake-up!"  
  
Ron groaned and rolled over. "Wassamatta?"  
  
"Ron," repeated Harry, "I think I know where your Mum is."  
***  
  
A/N: I know, I'm evil. Wahaha! Yes, Llanberris (pronounced glanberris) is a real place. Here's a big whopping thank-you to athena_arena for telling me a good place and describing it for me, plus helping me with the court scene. *sends a hug to athena_arena*. How do you guys like my poem? I wrote it in math class. Take that, Ms. Dixon! ^^ Thanks so much for the feedback on the previous chapters ... you know you want to review now! Please include any theories, wild suspicions, or death-threats in the review. A chocolate frog to the closest one! (Not that I'll tell you right away, as it'd ruin the surprise.) Viva la METMA!


	7. The Lambs that Got Away

A/N: Sorry this chapter took so long to get out. You might want to count on the next one taking about as long, as it'll be the next-to-last one, probably. ^^ Anyway, things are REALLY starting to speed up -- this is an action packed chapter, but also a sad one. A million thanks to my faithful beta-reader, athena_arena, who puts up with me e-mailing her for plot help! :) Enjoy!  
***  
  
From the soft chair next to the window, Mr. Douglass stared out into the mountains. If he squinted a bit, he could just make out white dots against the otherwise brilliant green of the mountainside. The same green Mrs. Douglass's eyes had been, he thought sadly. So green you half wondered if perhaps, when the world was being created, God hadn't become a little bit bored and flung down a bright spot of color, just to mystify the humans who would later see it. He sighed, remembering those amazing eyes.  
  
The sheep ran off beyond the wizened man's vision, and his thoughts turned to the pure lamb he had witnessed being slaughtered. It had been long ago, so very long ago, but Mr. Douglass hadn't forgotten. A fact which would later haunt another...  
  
The day was a wet one; the heavens had opened up, coating the city with chilling rain. The same rain slicked the asphalt on the roads so that cars flew by like wet soap, and were just as hard to control. Johnston was on his way to a meeting. In fact, he was quite late, and sped along the road like a cheetah closing in on its prey. Mr. Douglass, forty years younger and cutting an elegant figure, sat beside him and glanced at his wristwatch every few seconds.  
  
"Damnit!" muttered Johnston, "we're going to be late, late, late!" He punctuated every repetition with a rev of the engine. Mr. Douglass nodded, agreeing.  
  
"Hurry up, then, why don't you?" he said irritably. Looking at the clock once more, Johnston really stepped on the gas. The rain almost completely obstructed his view, and the cars coming in the other directions reminded him of an impressionist's painting viewed closely. He quickly checked the speedometer -- they were easily going seventy miles per hour, far above the speed limit of forty-five.  
  
A split second before impact, Mr. Douglass saw her. She was a girl of about ten or so, crossing the street without looking quite carefully enough. Without realizing she was about to be hit by a car going much too fast to stop. Mr. Douglass tried to warn her; to tell her to move! Quickly! But even as he filled his lungs with air, they were upon her. There was a deafening smack, and then ... silence. The little figure crumpled as if hit by a giant wrecking ball. Which she had been. For they were two giant wrecking balls, destroying lives like a knife through butter.  
  
"Oh my God ... oh my God..." Johnston, eyes wide, seemed able to say only those three words, repeating like a broken record player. But Mr. Douglass could say nothing at all, only stare with his mouth hanging open. He trembled as if he'd been hit by the car himself.  
  
"Oh my God ... we've got to leave, get out of here, no one saw it, got to go, go, go ... oh my God..." Johnston started the engine, his eyes flashing wildly.  
  
"What are you doing? We can't leave her! Are you just going to forget the girl you just killed?" Mr. Douglass was shocked at the idea of leaving. How could he leave this little girl, when his own was safely tucked into bed? When his own daughter was warm underneath covers, and this girl was so very, very cold?  
  
"Come on. You know we can't let this get out! It'd be bedlam ... bedlam, I tell you. The reporters would ruin us. We'd be wiped off the map. I drove the car, so it's my decision. We leave." Johnston's words flew jumbled out of his mouth.  
  
"You're making a huge mistake!" Mr. Douglass couldn't believe this was really the kind, rational Johnston he knew.  
  
"Then I am. Let's go." Johnston's voice was hard, harder than the asphalt on which the girl lay, motionless.  
  
Wordless, the two drove away. Wordless on Johnston's part because of fear and horror, on Douglass's because of outrage. Over a cup of coffee they both needed to calm their nerves, the two men promised never to reveal what had happened that day. And they never had. Yet, when they least suspected it, a vision would often creep into the two friend's minds. Even years later, both Johnston and Mr. Douglass sometimes closed their eyes and saw a trickle of crimson blood mixing with the cold rain, and heard the deafening smack, like the clash of the heavens.  
  
The next day, Mr. Douglass clipped the girl's photograph out of the newspaper. He wasn't quite sure why, but he filed it away. It was Johnston's dirty little secret, and Mr. Douglass sometimes wondered, back in the days before the "falling out," why he had kept it. But now he knew. As soon as his letter reached Johnston, crimson blood would flow once more. The time for vengeance had finally come. Mr. Douglass laughed softly to himself as he closed the window.  
  
***  
  
After the facade of the trial had crumbled all around them, the Douglass's were led single-file to a small cell in the nearly inescapable London jail. Their shackles clinked loudly against the cool concrete floor, and Molly's ugly jumpsuit dragged in a puddle of questionable contents. A guard, his boots clicking on the floor, selected a key from his ring of several and opened a cell. He pushed the three in, and locked it back up again. The turn of the key seemed deafening to Molly. She huddled next to her mother, appearing as though she were fastened to Mrs. Douglass's side. Before, Molly had been able to suspend belief. "It couldn't really be true..." she thought, "they couldn't really be sending me to jail!" But now, she knew it was true. So agonizingly, terrifyingly true. She shivered.  
  
The guard, swinging his keys with a clink, shuffled back to his place. As a cold key brushed his leg, he realized that the turn of his key was the end of freedom for this family. At least, until he turned that key again. He whistled to himself. In his very hands were the lives of hundreds of inmates. In his hands were the difference between walking free, and living chained. In his hands were --  
  
But he jumped, shocked. In his hands were nothing. He panicked, but not so much so as to overlook the fact that these keys symbolized his job. Lose the keys, lose the job. And losing his job was not something he could afford in his financial situation. He had probably dropped them, he thought, feeling his stomach twist nervously. Yes ... they'd be lying there just waiting for him!  
  
He was wrong. As the guard had begun to walk away, Mr. Douglass pulled out the wand he'd transfigured, and which the men who strip-searched him had missed. A whispered 'Accio!' was enough to send the keys to his freedom hurtling through the air to his outstretched hand. Another barely audible spell -- 'alohomora!' -- released their arms and legs from the restrictive shackles. Molly shrugged them off, amazed at what had just come out of a simple piece of wood. Sure, she knew her father was a wizard ... but she so rarely saw that part of him that it still held wonder. Inside, she felt a deep longing to be able to make things move around with a simple word.  
  
They threw open the heavy cell door and Mr. Douglass held it with his hands for Molly to run out. As Molly and her mother waited in the dark hall, breathing rapidly, Mr. Douglass placed the keys on the floor a few cells away. Perhaps if the guard believed he had dropped the keys, he wouldn't come searching as soon.  
  
Then, working quickly, Mr. Douglass ran down the hall to where the Douglass's clothes had been left by guards to be donated to the poor. The trio ducked into an available storeroom and changed among the mops and brooms. Soon, they were free of the recognizable jail uniforms and clothed in ordinary street clothes. Mr. Douglass grinned widely all the while. His white teeth shone luminously in the dark jail, like a skeleton's perpetually grinning jaws. Mr. Douglass couldn't be prouder that they had made it this far, and felt a ruthless determination to see it through. He hugged Molly to his chest. "We're almost out," he whispered encouragingly.  
  
Removing their shoes, the Douglass's tiptoed along the dark corridors towards the front of the building. "If we could only get out the door," thought Mr. Douglass, "they'd never catch us!" The only sound was the padding of soft footsteps and the drip, drip, drip of the leaky roof. Even all breathing seemed to have stopped. Molly couldn't remember inhaling during the last ten minutes -- yet she must have, because she was still very much alive, and very much frightened.  
  
Suddenly, behind them, came a shouted, "They're gone!" Molly forgot all caution and bolted, little caring that she'd stubbed her toe. Flanked by her parents, she sprinted so fast she felt like she had wings. But still, behind them, came the slapping of soles against the ground. Try as she might, Molly couldn't escape those boots, those boots that chilled her to the depths of her very soul.  
  
A bright patch in the endless monotony of human cages appeared before them, beckoning to them like safe harbor to bleary-eyed sailors. They were nearly there! Molly glanced nervously behind herself as she ran, hoping no one pursued them. Yet one guard still did -- wiry and fast, he was the embodiment of their greatest fears.  
  
"Stop! Stop!" he shouted, and the Douglass's sped up. "Stop or I'll shoot!" There was a realization that he truly would, and it unnerved Molly.  
  
Before he could, Mr. Douglass whipped out his wand and pointed it behind him. He opened his still-grinning mouth to shout a spell -- 'expelliarmus!' -- and a loud bang came out of his wand. It ricocheted off of the walls and bounced harmlessly away from the assailant. But it was enough -- they reached the bright entrance to the jail. Mr. Douglass unlocked the gate effortlessly with his magic wand, and they were free.  
  
Molly flung her hand over her eyes to shield them from the bright, searing sun as she ran, and still couldn't be gladder to have to do it. She wished she could take a minute just to be thankful for escaping to see the brilliant sun, but they were still on the run, and Molly couldn't even take a minute to catch her breath.   
  
Mr. Douglass found a parked car close by and proceeded to break into it using the alohomora charm again. Any sign of dismay hidden upon her face, Molly and her mother climbed in the vehicle and the Douglass's were soon on their way. Like a caged bird just testing her wings, Molly tried to imagine how much trouble they would get in for what they had just done. She really preferred not to think about it. But as the car sped on, unfollowed, to a strange place called Llanberris which she'd never heard of, her mind roamed.   
  
She felt so guilty. So gut-wrenchingly, icily guilty. And dirty, like she could never be clean again. While some parents worry because they don't know if they've instilled morals in their children, Molly's parents never worried about those things. They knew she was a "good kid." But now, it seemed Molly was too good for her parents. Was she wrong, or were they? Her parents had always taught her lying was wrong ... why, then, had they changed their minds just for the trial?   
  
Swimming with twisted ideas and shattered foundations, Molly rested her head on her arms, and dozed. When she opened her eyes, they were there. They were looking at their new home. Molly little knew as she walked through the door into a tidy, comfortable cottage that she would learn to hate it with all her heart.  
  
***  
  
There was wonder and a spark in Ron's eyes as he snapped awake. "What did you say?" he whispered, flushed with excitement.  
  
"I said, I know where your Mum is." Harry said softly, smiling at his friend. He explained his thoughts, trials, and realizations of the poem's importance, as Ron nodded every while in a way, his eyes never straying from Harry's face.  
  
"Harry, you're a genius!" he burst out, trembling with exhilaration and happiness. His face was flushed, and he couldn't stop his mouth from breaking out into a massive grin.  
  
"Excuse me, but who got the 112% on her Charms exam? Does that count for nothing?" asked Hermione good-naturedly from the doorway. She rubbed her eyes and yawned, but it was evident she too was beside herself.  
  
"Still milking that, Hermione? It was first year, for goodness sake!" Ron argued, but he laughed as he said it. With this spine-tingling, warming, amazing news, he couldn't fight.  
  
"Why're you awake?" wondered Harry. After all, three o'clock in the morning is a time for sleeping, not roaming the halls, for most people. But then again, Hermione wasn't most people.  
  
"The noise you guys are making could wake the dead! Now, really," she pretended to scold them, "if you can wake Ginny, you know you're loud!" Ginny was a very heavy sleeper. Ron often told the story of the time Fred and George had set the house on fire with an experiment gone wrong. Even after Mr. Weasley had doused the flames, Ginny remained asleep in her bed, the fire alarm yelling, "Get out of bed, you stupid girl!" Ron rather liked to tell that story, although Ginny didn't find it quite as amusing.   
  
Ginny stuck her head over Hermione's shoulder in the doorway, and Ron noticed that for the first time in days she looked truly happy. Her eyes were no longer brimmed by tears, and color seemed to have seeped back into her face. His heart leapt even further, and Ron felt like bursting into laughter.  
  
So he did. For a few minutes, the four laughed, sang, and hugged. They all felt a warmth that was quite unrelated to weather filling up inside of them. Abruptly, Hermione spoke. "Even though we're all really happy to know where Ron and Ginny's mum is, we still need a plan on how to get her home. Now, I may not be the genius here," Harry rolled his eyes, "but I do know that we have to figure out a plan of attack."  
  
Ron agreed. "We can't barge in there with a bunch of ministry men! It'd be mayhem ... if it's just us four, though, she won't be able to refuse. I know Mum, and she'd do anything for her 'babies.'" Ginny nodded, a smile still plastered to her face.  
  
"Okay, so we're agreed on that. But how can we get to Llanberris? It's fairly far off, and we haven't learned to Apparate." Hermione was deeply looking forward to the day when she too would learn this extremely useful art. Until then, however, she and the others tried to come up with a plan. The room that had just been so loud stilled to a hush.  
  
"I know!" said Harry presently, "we'll take the Knight Bus. I used it third year -- it's a bit bumpy, but we'll get there all right."  
  
"YES!" shouted Ron, and he and Ginny rushed off to write a note to their still absent father. For a moment Harry and Hermione were left alone to pack.  
  
"I'm worried about Ron," said Hermione. "I know this sounds awful ... but what if his Mum doesn't want to come home?" She screwed up her brow, distraught. Harry had to admit, it was a possibility.  
  
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, I guess," he answered. "But I doubt we'll have to -- Mrs. Weasley's a wonderful mother." Hermione nodded fervently, trying to forget the infamous egg incident, and Ginny and Ron returned.  
  
The four traipsed out the front door, taping the note to it, and made for the street. They reached it, and Harry pulled out his wand.   
  
"You flag one down like this," he said, sticking out his wand. The large bus appeared out of midair, as Hermione, Ron, and Ginny were shocked to see. A short man jumped out of the door while the bus was still slowing down.  
  
"Hullo! Why if it isn't Neville -- er, I mean Harry Potter!" he shouted with genuine happiness. "You remember me, don't you? Ernie, it 'tis. And you've brought friends! Wonderful, come aboard!"  
  
Ron stood, glued to the pavement. "Neville?" he said incredulously. After a few seconds, he shook his head and climbed aboard, muttering "Neville?!" all the while.  
  
*  
  
Meanwhile, Arthur was speaking to Ministry officials. He tried to explain the situation, but as he knew so little, it was a challenge. He often found himself saying, "I just don't know!" in aggravation. The Ministry seemed in no great hurry to go after Molly, but he felt like a terrible person for delaying even a minute.  
  
"You mean she just disappeared?" asked one, astonished.  
  
"I don't know," he replied. "Her apron was found near the end of the road, but otherwise..." Arthur ran a head through his hair uncomfortably. "That's why we need to go now, while the tracks are still fresh! Please, believe me. I've told you all I know ... can you help me?"  
  
The head of the group took pity on Arthur's frantic state. "Of course, Mr. Weasley. We'll just stop off at your house to leave someone with the children, and then we'll be off." The group disappeared with a pop, leaving the brick ministry building. They reappeared in front of the Burrow, the bright morning sun warming their shoulders. The house was still as the men approached the door.  
  
"What's this?" asked one, motioning to the scrap of paper tied to the door. Arthur ran up and grabbed it, feeling a sneaking suspicion flood into his stomach. He read: 'Dear Dad -- we're all right, but gone to Llanberris with Harry and Hermione to get Mum. Love you -- Ron and Ginny.'  
  
"Oh, no," he murmured, leaning heavily against the door. "Can't keep their heads out of trouble for a minute, can they?" He sighed with a shudder, and passed the note around.   
  
A short, squat man who happened to have been the chief investigator of the Douglass case read the message, and took a double-take to realize the importance of the location. "Llanberris, eh? Interesting... I can test my little theory on the position of a Mr. Douglass," he whispered to himself. Although she didn't know it yet, Molly would soon be receiving two very different types of guests.  
***  
  
A/N: Exciting chapter, no? Thanks so much to all the dedicated readers who've given me feedback on the previous chapters... I really appreciate it! You guys inspire me! Please include any theories, wild suspicions, or death-threats in the review. Not like I'd tell you if you got it right, but whatever. ^___^ You can dream. Anyway, BtCA is nearly wrapping up, and I'm sorry to say there shouldn't be more than two chapters left. :( Bye for now, home fries! Viva la METMA!  
  



	8. 

A/N: *smiles weakly* Sorry it took so long. Really, I am! Anyway, this is a very, VERY big chapter. A heckofalot of stuff happens, and it is really exciting. Sadly the second-to-last part! *sniff* Don't know WHAT I'll do without BtCA! *Ahem* Enough of my pointless ramblings. On with the fic!  
***  
  
The gray morning fog settled on the yawning town of Llanberris, and the loud calls of birds slowly pulled Molly away from the warm comfort of sleep. She rolled over under the light cotton sheet, but kept her eyes closed. She'd been dreaming, Molly recalled, opening and closing her mouth to rid it of its ashy taste. It had been a very odd dream, too ... wherever she turned, an angry face followed her. Even when she shut her eyes, haunting faces appeared on the inside of her eyelids. The face of Ron blended into a policeman, who blended into the little girl whose picture she had seen. And then the haunting eyes, too, would fade, into those of her beloved Arthur, begging her to come home...  
  
But it was only a dream, she thought forcefully, and stepped out of bed to begin getting dressed. As she pulled on one of her father's shirts, she hummed softly. The past few days since the mysterious photo had been relatively calm. Molly and her aging father had spoken little, but thought much, and they had shared a good many games of poker. Molly pulled on the shoes she had arrived in, looking forward to avenging her loss at seven-card stud the night before. She grabbed the deck of cards and went in search of Mr. Douglass.  
  
He was staring out of the window when she entered the room, lost in a world of his own. Seeing Molly enter the room, he turned from it and smiled pleasantly at her. "Good morning, sleeping beauty!" he said, grinning, and it struck Molly as something he might have said in the happier days, in the days before Llanberris. She smiled.  
  
"Morning, Dad" she answered, pouring herself a steaming cup of coffee and breathing in the fragrance. "I'm going to beat you today!" she said mischievously, floating backwards in time.  
  
He chucked. "I very much doubt it. But I'm afraid we'll have to delay our game for a little bit -- I've been hungry for news of the outside world, Mol. Could you go into town and buy me a paper?" She nodded casually. She was hankering for a bit of news herself. At home, she read the newspaper from cover to cover every morning (Spending a bit more time on Lockhart's column, of course). Mr. Douglass handed her a bit of money, and she set off into town.  
  
Mr. Douglass waited by the door, eager as a puppy. It had been nearly four days -- certainly his message had been received by now! And if it had been received... Mr. Douglass's wrinkled face broke out into a menacing smile. Then what he had been waiting for, for so many years ... so many cold years, had come true. Cold years of seeing everything in shades of gray. No matter how azure, how clear the sky really was, to Mr. Douglass it was always filled with clouds of fear and despair.  
  
Now, the only color he could see was red. Red: the color of bloodshed, of fighting, of vengeance. Mr. Douglass felt his crimson blood pounding in his body, and when he closed his eyes, the inside of his eyelids were a sharp, rusty red. When, he wondered, would the scarlet blood of his enemy flow?  
  
The door swung open, as if in answer to his question, and Molly strode inside. She pulled the paper out from under her arm and handed it to Mr. Douglass. "Hang on a second, Dad, I want the funnies," she started, but Mr. Douglass ripped the folded paper from her grip. He hurriedly read the front page, his eyes flashing madly.  
  
Molly was puzzled, and the grin slowly faded off of her face. "Dad?" she asked, confused, "what are you doing?"  
  
He was acting like a wild man -- had newspaper been edible, he would have swallowed it whole and cursed his body for its slow digestion. As it was, his eyes raced across the page, and he dropped all but the front in his haste. His eyes, under wrinkled lids, whipped back and forth so fast Molly felt dizzy. Then Mr. Douglass lowed the paper slowly, and his brown eyes glinted maniacally. A slow, wide grin spread over his face. For a moment, Molly just stared at him. In a matter of seconds, an aged, tired old man had been transformed into this thing, this ... animal.  
  
He laughed. Dropping the paper, he chuckled for the first time in years. The loud sound echoed through the house, bouncing off the walls in its glee. But somehow, unlike most, his laughter didn't bring warmth to Molly's heart. Instead, it brought a coldness, a fear. She bit her lip nervously and picked up the newspaper her father had forgotten in his glee. She read the headlines and felt a chill, icy fingers spreading from her heart to her stomach.  
  
It was funny, really. Twice within a few weeks a newspaper had been the vehicle to destroy Molly's beliefs -- her hopes -- her dreams. One had been Muggle, one wizard. But both crushing, both mind-boggling, and both destroying. As for those wizards who said Muggles and everything to do with them were inferior, Molly faintly thought that no, they were painstakingly equal. For, lip trembling, she read:  
  
"Respected Accountant Found Dead of Suicide"  
The successful accountant Geoffrey Johnston was found dead yesterday in his London home. Police have ruled out all chances of murder, though they, "can't imagine why Johnston would be driven to suicide." Johnston was found by his housekeeper, who claims she was waiting for Johnston to return after going to get the post. In fact, the post was found next to him, with an opened envelope containing a picture clutched in his hand. A suicide note was found. Johnston wrote, "I can't live with my crimes any longer. God, forgive me..."  
  
What the crime was has yet to be determined. Johnston, who recently turned sixty-five, has a clean record, save his arrest in the Douglass case, where he was later acquitted. Funeral services..."  
  
Molly raised her head and stared at Mr. Douglass with all-knowing eyes. Her voice was strangely calm as she said, "You engineered this, didn't you?" But she didn't need an answer -- she already knew. "what did Johnston ever do to you, Douglass?" she spat, not wanting to waste such a precious word as 'dad' on this scum. She backed away to the other side of the room, shaking her head. It was as far away from him as Molly could get, yet she still felt Mr. Douglass's malice coming off in waves and bombarding her. She felt dirty, like she hadn't bathed in weeks. She'd been living in the same house as this murderer? Sleeping in the room next to his? The mere thought gave her shivers.  
  
"Why, he was there, Molly," he said softly, red glint still in his eye. "He was there, and he was stupid, and oh so easy to manipulate. Naive. Never be naive, Molly, or you are put at the mercy of your enemies."  
  
Molly spoke slowly, anger and hate brimming in every syllable. "I once was naive, and you -- you murdering bastard -- manipulated me for all I was worth. But now I see the truth. You were using me, all along." Molly seemed to grow in height, shaking with rage. Her dreams had been broken, her childhood stolen, twisted, corrupted -- and all by him. Hate surrounded Molly, and she saw red. Not the red of vengeance, but the red of her children's hair, and the bright blood of a lamb laid on the alter. A lamb who dies unknowing of what he has done to merit this treatment. Molly felt as though she lay on the alter, throat slit by the bloodthirsty lion.  
  
Abruptly, someone knocked on the door. One, two, three knocks. Someone was determined to get inside. Someone knocked again. The sound of the knocking on the wooden door echoed in Molly's ears, and the room that had been a hotbed of hostility fell silent. Someone knew they were here. Someone was coming.  
  


***  


  
Many years earlier, a freshly eleven year-old Molly opened the door. Cool mountain air rushed inside, giving the house a fresh smell. Although small, the house was tidy and most importantly, uninhabited. Mr. Douglass had bought and stocked it several years ago, just in case he would need to "disappear." As places to "disappear" to go, Molly reckoned, the hideaway wasn't half bad. The door opened up to three rooms and a small kitchen, each furnished rather nicely. The littlest room was assigned to Molly.  
  
As Molly explored the house, testing out her bed and checking the pantry, she began to think. The problem wasn't with the house's size, or shape; it was in what the house stood for. The foundations upon which she had been raised were shaken, and this new house continued to destroy them. She, Molly R. Douglass, had committed perjury, assisted in arsony, and was on the run from the law. She smiled ruefully. From the description, one would expect to see a criminal tougher than nails and more dangerous than a tank of man-eating piranhas. Instead, she was an eleven year-old who only felt sick.  
  
She sprawled out on her bed, watching the moon rise through the high window. 'The sky is so clear out here,' she thought. Molly could easily see the face on the moon. But tonight, the moon's usually cheerful face seemed to glare at her disapprovingly. She quaked under the steely look, and turned away, staring at the dark, eyeless wall. _Had she done the right thing?_ Was minding your parents more important than doing what was right?  
  
Molly didn't know. As she curled up in a ball under the covers, she heard a loud tapping on the glass windowpane. Slightly spooked, she got up and walked over to the window to find out what was there. With shaking hands, she undid the latch and slid the window open.   
  
Whatever Molly expected, it was not a face full of feathers. The soft animal swooped past her face, and Molly reeled from the shock. It soared gently around the room, and she was able to get a better look. It was a large, chestnut owl, carrying a piece of parchment in its beak. It flew near Molly's face again, and she shrank back; but the owl was merely trying to offer her the letter. Trembling, and still trying to keep as far away from the bird as she could, Molly snatched the letter and retreated to the bed, hardly noticing that the owl had flown out of the open window.  
  
She slowly turned the letter so that she could read it in the moonlight. She glanced at the address, but then did a double-take. It was addressed to Llanberris. "How could anyone find out so quickly?" she wondered, sick with fear. If this mysterious correspondent knew where the Douglass's were, how did she know police weren't storming the house at this very moment?  
  
It suddenly seemed very important to Molly to find out what this letter, so mysteriously delivered, had to say. Did it contain blackmail, or friendly words? There was only one way to find out. Molly quickly slid open the flap, nearly tearing the thick parchment in her haste. But as she swiftly read the first few lines, her tense muscles relaxed. No, it wasn't blackmail ... but what was it?  
  
The emblem of Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry smiled up at her, and Molly's heart pounded wildly. Did this mean ... could this possibly mean that she was a witch? She hardly dared to dream it could be so; Mrs. Douglass had always said Molly was "normal" and hadn't a speck of magic in her blood. But, as the past few days had illustrated, she had been known to lie on occasion. Molly closed her eyes and remembered the terrible, yet wonderful deeds her father had worked with his magic just the day before. With those visions came a hunger; a longing to be able to unlock doors without keys, send objects flying through the air, and shoot spells from a mere piece of wood. She nearly flew into the other room.  
  
"Mum! Dad! Look what I got!" she shrieked, unable to contain her excitement. She pounced on the two and shook the letter with its emerald green lettering in their astonished faces. "It says I'm a witch, and I've been accepted to this fancy school!" Molly laughed happily, hardly noticing the swift look between her parents.  
  
"Molly, honey, sit down," said Mrs. Douglass, motioning to the space on the couch between the two. Molly sat down slowly, her excitement fading and being replaced by a   
horrible feeling of dread.   
  
"Now, Molly," said Mr. Douglass slowly, "your mother and I have discussed the possibility of you being contacted by Hogwarts... I went there myself, years ago," he said, smiling, "one of the best times of my life, it was." He suddenly became aware of Mrs. Douglass's glare, and quickly trailed off.  
  
"What your dad _meant_ to say was that we've thought about it thoroughly, but we just don't know if you can safely go to Hogwarts," Mrs. Douglass said firmly.  
  
"S-safely?" squeaked Molly, blinking back hot tears.  
  
"Well ... look at it this way. These people already know our address -- if you go to that school police will figure out the connection between us, and we'll be back in jail."   
  
"Do you understand, Mol?" asked Mr. Douglass softly, with true pity in his eyes. "As much as I'd love for you to be able to go to Hogwarts ... to learn magic..." He sighed. "Well, it would have made me so proud. But Molly, it's impossible." He spoke the last words with such finality that Molly's self-control crumpled, and she fell on her father's shoulder, crying madly. Just when she had finally thought that her life had hope -- that there possibly could be a dawn after this long, endless night -- her hopes had been smashed, like a liquor bottle in the hands of a drunk. She ran from the room, wiping tears from her stained face.  
  
Molly collapsed on her bed, her pillow soggy from her crying. As she flipped over onto her back, chest heaving, she looked out the window once more. Now, the moon's face seemed to mock her, laughing at her foolish hopes. The moon knew that she could never have a life outside this house; that she was doomed to stay here until she rotted away to nothing but a pile of bones, still lying on the same bed. Molly realized she couldn't go to Hogwarts -- it was impossible ... unthinkable ... out of the question!  
  
Unless. Hardly daring to hope, Molly opened the letter again. To get to Hogwarts, all she had to do was turn up at King's Cross, Platform 9 3/4 on September 1. Soon, she could leave this godforsaken house and all who lived in it forever. Nothing was going to stop her from getting to Hogwarts. Molly threw back her head and laughed at the moon.  
  


***  
  


"Where to?" asked Ernie, smiling, as the four stepped onto the bus.  
  
"Llanberris," answered Hermione darkly.  
  
"Well, why so glum? It's lovely this time o' year. That'll be thirteen sickles apiece," he said, and they handed it to him and made their way to the back of the bustling bus. It was quite difficult to find a quiet, unoccupied space. As Harry quickly pointed out to the others, they were probably behind nearly ten or twenty other parties. It could be a couple of hours before they would arrive, even with magic.   
  
As they sat down, Ron pulled the diary from his knapsack. "You know, even though we know where my Mum is, and all, I think we should finish reading. To pass the time, at least," he quickly added.  
  
The others agreed, mostly from bald-faced curiosity at what the next pages would bring. The three bent over the book, Ron quietly whispering the words to the other three, so as not to bother the other passengers. Ginny stared wistfully out of the window at her mother's words. Hermione smiled softly at her.   
  
"We'll see her soon, Ginny," she whispered encouragingly.  
  
As Ginny appreciatively smiled back, Ron raised his voice a bit and looked up from the diary, excited.   
  
"Listen to this! It might be important." He read on, and the others perked up, listening.  
  
"'January 5,'" he read slowly. "'I can't believe it's Dad's birthday today. I had thought the date would be insignificant -- that I wouldn't care. I thought I was over them. But I guess you can't truly ever get over your parents, even if they are criminals. They're the ones who made me -- who fed me and clothed me. They were my role-models.  
  
"'But when you put people up on pedestals, they fall. I guess I always thought my parents were perfect. Unable to do any wrong. In a way, I still do. It's hard to believe my good, sane, parents could be capable of doing what they've done. The same parents who took me to the park ... read me books at night ... it's almost unthinkable.  
  
"'I don't know why my crimes still haunt me. I wonder if my parents even remember. Remember that they burned up the family business, and with it my hopes. No ... maybe Johnston really did burn it down. Maybe I imagined my own flesh and blood ordering me to pour the gasoline over the cornerstones of the Douglass Tea building. Maybe I imagined them telling me to lie in court, in front of all those eyes.  
  
"'Maybe we were convicted wrongly, and so our breakout was justified. Maybe they're not to be held for their crimes. Maybe only I am. Otherwise, I don't see how it could possibly have happened.  
  
"'I don't understand a lot of things. Like their motives for the crimes they may -- or may not have -- done. There's only one thing I truly understand. I wish that I was still living in London, and that it had never happened.'"  
  
At the last words, Ron's voice cracked painfully. The four stared at each other, expressions ranging from disbelief, to sadness, to puzzlement, to, in Ron's case, a mixture of them all.  
  
"Well, now we know why Mum never talked about her family," said Ginny, trying to be cheerful, but she faltered at the others' faces.  
  
"I don't believe a word of it," said Hermione, breaking the stifling silence. "She's obviously trying to take responsibility for what her parents did. All the things she named -- lying in court, burning down the building -- I would bet money that her parents really did tell her to do those things. She was just trying to convince herself it never happened. I'd guess your mum was in denial. She was only eleven, Ron. It would be a lot to handle." Hermione sounded sure of her words.  
  
"Those lying, _horrible_ people," said Ron bitterly. "I wonder what happened to them?" As the four considered this question, they didn't realize that in a couple of hours, they'd have the answer.  
  


***  


  
"Here we are, Arthur. Llanberris," said the investigator of the Douglass case, Charles Eddings, as they apparated one by one. Arthur looked around the small Muggle tourist town, flanked by hills carpeted by soft grass.   
  
"You really think Molly is here?" asked Arthur, incredulous. The town was the last place he would have expected his wife to have fled to.  
  
"Well, yes and no. Yes, she's in Llanberris, but not in the Muggle area. We've got to hike a bit; we aren't exactly sure if she's here, after all," Eddings explained. He headed up the road, flanked by the other Ministry men, towards the mountain. It greatly overshadowed every other hill in the area. It jutted out from the ground, as if so eager to escape the earth that it little cared for its shape. Looking up at its craggy peaks, Arthur thought he could see a faint, winding path cutting across the mountain.  
  
"We aren't taking that path, are we?" he asked weakly, hoping desperately he was wrong. The steep mountain looked to be harsh for Arthur, who was a bit portly and definitely no rock-climber. He shaded his eyes from the sun, seeing uneasily how unassailable the mountain looked against the cobalt blue sky.  
  
"We sure are!" Mr. Eddings yelled back cheerfully. He, for one, was looking forward to finding out if he had dedicated years of his life tracking the Douglass's for a reason. "We've only to go up a bit, I hope. If we can't make it that far, what are the chances she could?"   
  
Arthur couldn't argue with that logic, so he began to trudge up the path. It was for Molly, he reminded himself, and resigned himself to climbing the mountain. It wasn't as if they had that far to go; it couldn't have been more than a ten miles. But the terrain was rough, and more than once Arthur tripped over a rock, nearly falling flat on his face. A family of gnats buzzed around his face, and no amount of swatting would silence their constant noise. Arthur wiped his brow for the fifth time in the last few minutes and looked behind him. He was surprised to see that the group had come quite a way. The mountain, too, looked slightly closer than the last time he had glanced up, but it was hard for him to take comfort in that, as it still loomed before him.   
  
But soon the group, headed by the overeager Mr. Eddings, stopped. Just off the beaten path, Arthur thought he could see a small hut. Could it possibly be what they were looking for?   
  
As if to answer his unspoken question, Mr. Eddings spoke to the group. "Men, I think we've found it," he said, hardly able to contain his excitement. "Now, I want you to surround the house, just in case. Wands out."  
  
Arthur's voice rose sharply. "Wands out?" he asked. "My wife could be in there!"  
  
"Just calm down, Mr. Weasley. We won't hurt her," said Mr. Eddings. After the group finished fanning out around the house, the man walked quickly to the door and gave a few short knocks with his fist. No response came. His face falling, he knocked again, this time harder.  
  
The entire group quieted, as if straining their ears for a response. It seemed to Arthur that even the countryside had stilled to a hush. The gnats that had buzzed so loudly just a few moments ago seemed to have lost their voices. Even the air, so clear, felt stifling, and Arthur had a hard time breathing as he waited. The seconds felt like hours, and still Eddings pounded on the wooden door. If he wasn't careful, thought Arthur, he'd knock it down.  
  
Suddenly, the knocking ceased. With a creak that was magnified by the silence, the door slid slowly open. Standing at the door was a woman, so changed over the past few days that she scarcely knew herself.  
  
"Molly?" whispered Arthur, walking slowly towards her. But his attention was diverted when another person stepped out of the open door. He was old and hunched, yes, but his eyes shone madly with a light that reminded Arthur of teenage hooligans. The anger, the disregard for consequences... "Molly, look out!" he shouted, as the old man suddenly grabbed her from behind.  
  
The man pulled out his wand and pointed it at Molly's throat. "Now, don't anybody move," he instructed, grinning insanely. Molly struggled to escape his grip, but he was surprisingly strong. "You're not going anywhere, my little baby. Daddy's got to protect you ... and himself..."  
  
"Let me go!" she yelled, pulling with all her might. "Help! He's crazy!"   
  
Mr. Douglass nodded to himself. "Crazy? Probably," he said, "but you come one step closer, I'll show you what a crazy man can do. Put your wands on the ground." His eyes shone fiercely, and none of the trained wizards doubted he would do it. They laid down their wands and backed away, trying not to attract attention. Only Arthur still stood where he had halted. He felt so powerless; at this very moment, a man was threatening Molly's life, and he could do nothing. Nothing.  
  
"Good," said Mr. Douglass, stretching out the word. He quickly grabbed the rest of the wands from the ground, while still trying to maintain his grip on Molly. She struggled wildly, kicking and biting, and managed to break loose for a few seconds. She tried to run, but she'd just spent most of her energy trying to escape. Mr. Douglass easily caught her again and held her even tighter now.  
  
"You're not going anywhere."  
  
***  
  
A/N: Ah, the climax! The last part *sniff, sniff* will answer a lot of questions that I'm sure you have after this chapter! Sorry for the cliffhanger... *laughs* okay, I'm not sorry. *grins* A big thank-you to athena_arena for beta-reading again... love ya! Thanks so much to all the dedicated readers who've given me feedback on the previous chapters... I really appreciate it! You guys inspire me! Please include any theories, wild suspicions, or death-threats in the review. PLEASE do review, though!   
  



	9. Between a Rock and a Hard Place

A/N: I'm really, _really_ sorry it took so long. Yikes. Couldn't be helped, though, and I hope you'll forgive me! A gigantic thank-you is due to Juliette, who helped me work out the last few plot bunnies. Love ya, Juliette! Anyway, without further ado, here it is. The conclusion to Behind the Checkered Apron.  
***  
  
As the long, tiresome bus ride wore on, Ron, Harry, Hermione, and Ginny's tempers began to rise. Ron angrily snapped at Harry for forgetting sandwiches, only to sheepishly take it back a moment later. Harry didn't hold it against him; so much was riding on this trip, and nothing was certain... Now, Harry felt quite unsure whether his guess about Mrs. Weasley had even a grain of truth. He anxiously wrung his cold, clammy hands. If he was wrong, how would Ron and Ginny feel?  
  
"She'll be there," said Ginny, falteringly. But she seemed to be talking to herself more than anyone else, trying to breathe life into her now feeble hopes. As Ron wrapped a warm arm around his sister's back, he thought ruefully how vastly the mood had changed from just a little while ago.  
  
They had long since finished the diary; nearly two hours ago they had closed the book after reading the last few sentences. "I love him. Around Arthur all the pain goes away. I cannot see the cottage, or the look on Johnston's face ... all I see is him. The despair, black as night, fades away. And it is dawn." Even Ron grudgingly admitted that it was very sweet, after much poking from Hermione.  
  
"So that's why Mrs. Weasley was able to lead a normal, loving life. Her knight in shining armor!" Hermione sighed dreamily. "If only all men were like that," she said acidly, sending an angry glare at Ron, who seemed not to notice. Ginny, catching the glance, stifled a grin. Harry, smelling a fight brewing, quickly changed the topic, but as they grew closer to Llanberris their fears began to catch up.  
  
And now they were nearly there. Hermione, to the annoyance of the others, nervously reviewed the plan once more. "All right -- remember, we might have to search a bit to find the cottage, if it's even still there. Once we find it, we go inside. Ron and Ginny, if your mum is the only one inside, you say your speech. If she really was kidnapped, we'll have to be more careful."  
  
"Yes, Hermione, we know," said Ron exasperatingly, "you've only gone over it a thou-" But Ron didn't get to finish his sentence; he was interrupted by a loud shout from Ernie.  
  
"Llanberris! The next stop is Llanberris! 'Urry up!" And with a mutual gulp, the four got off the bus, staring around a town they knew practically nothing about.  
  
"Well," said Hermione practically, "we had better start looking. She could be anywhere!" The others agreed, and they broke up into two groups. "I think the family should stick together this time, don't you?" she suggested. Not wanting to argue, Ginny and Ron walked off.  
  
Once the two redheads were out of earshot, Hermione turned to Harry, her face screwed up in worry.  
  
"Harry, I'm just not sure we'll find her! The odds are insane ... we must be mad to even attempt it!"  
  
Harry nodded slowly, his ebony hair dancing in the wind. Hermione had just put into words what he had been thinking all along. But his next words surprised him. "I'm sure we are, Hermione. But you know that while there is a chance, no matter how small, of finding her, we should go for it. For Ron."  
  
"I know, I know..." she sighed deeply, "it's just that sometimes it feels so hopeless. I doubt we'll ever find--" Hermione stopped speaking suddenly, staring at their surroundings. In Harry and she's wanderings, they had stumbled upon a faint dirt path, winding up a towering mountain. Hermione sucked in her breath slowly. This could be it, she thought faintly, the chance they had been waiting for!  
  
"You don't think..." croaked Harry, gone momentarily hoarse. It was crazy -- they were chasing phantoms, nothing more. And yet... "I see footprints!" he whispered, struggling to keep his joy in check.  
  
Hermione stooped to take a closer look. She reached out a trembling hand to touch the dirt at their feet. "I'd say about ten people passed, from the looks of it. Ron! Ginny!" she called suddenly. As they arrived, breathless, Hermione showed them the trampled dirt. Like the dark earth that is touched by the brilliant first rays of light each morning, Ron and Ginny's faces lit up with happiness.  
  
"Hurry up! What are you waiting for?" And with that, he enthusiastically charged up the steep, winding path.   
  
The four fit teenagers didn't have as much of a problem hiking up the trail as Mr. Weasley had. As Ron half walked, half ran, he carefully sidestepped the stones that jutted out of the dirt trail, traps to those who let their minds wander. Hermione learned this the hard way, after trying to get a good look at the picturesque scenery and sprawling onto her face.  
  
"Well, you did get a good look at the ground. Beautiful, isn't it?" teased Ron as he held out his hand to pull the fallen warrior up.   
  
Hermione smiled grudgingly, but was loath to begin running again. "Please, can't we just stop a minute and look around?" The others agreed, trying not to show they appreciated the rest. The four sat on the dusty road and looked out over the outstretched landscape.  
  
Hermione had been right to stare; it was beautiful. From their perch a little way up the trail, the hills seemed to rise and fall like emerald green waves, blanketed with a soft bed of grass. Bluer than the clearest sapphire, the cloudless sky caressed the green earth. Sparse patches of lavender flowers dotted the hills, like freckles on a Weasley face. Milky white sheep could be seen on faraway hilltops, dancing in places where humans could hardly walk.  
  
Hermione closed her eyes and sighed lengthily, drawing it out. She took a deep breath of the cool mountain air, feeling it pour into her lungs, cleansing, and exhaled again, feeling the calmest she'd been since Voldemort's rebirth.  
  
"I feel it -- the poem. Don't you?" The others knew what Hermione meant. There was a beauty to the place which made it feel almost like a bathing of the soul, scrubbing away the dirt and residue of worry and fear. They felt free as the faraway sheep, without a care in the world. Their faces turned upwards to the sky, the four teens who had aged far more than their years suggested wanted to be -- just be -- and revel in the glorious sunlight.   
  
It was Ron who first realized that they couldn't. There were other deeds to be done, no matter how hard it was to tear their eyes away from the dazzlingly blue sky. The mission was the save Mrs. Weasley; everything else would have to wait. Slowly, the four rose and bid good-bye to the mountain.  
  
After a few minutes of walking at their renewed pace, Ginny thought she heard strains of men's voices. Chalking it up as a trick of the ears, they continued to walk. But in another couple of minutes, Ron, Hermione, and Harry had to admit the sounds were real. An unnaturally loud shout piercing the air quickly sobered the teenagers. They knew that they had reached the end of the line. Either Mrs. Weasley was there, or she wasn't. The moment of truth.   
  
"Wands out. We don't know what we might be facing," breathed Hermione as they approached, the voices becoming ever louder. The four quietly crept up the end of the path to a clearing, the soft crinkling of grass and occasion snap of a twig the only sounds. Out of the open space came a manic laugh that chilled them to the depths of their souls. There was no humor in that laugh, and they all knew it. More cautious than ever, they crawled the last few feet and hid behind a bush, little caring for the sharp points of the leaves.   
  
What they saw when they looked out shocked them. Not only was Mrs. Weasley there, surprise enough to a skeptical Hermione, but Mr. Weasley was there as well. Hadn't he been the one to tell _them_ to stay put while he went to talk to the Ministry? Well, thought Hermione wryly, he had gone to the Ministry. Ten full bodied, strong men stood clumped together, just next to a small cottage. It was puzzling, to be sure.  
  
Ron cared not for puzzles -- he wanted answers. Who _was_ that elderly man restraining his mother, and why weren't the Ministry workers trying to help? Just as he was about to turn to the others, eyes full of questions, the man spoke.   
  
"You're not going anywhere," he said darkly. As Ron heard those terrible words leave the man's lips, he knew a rescue would soon be on its way.  
  


***  
  


Feeling her freedom held back by her father's cruel arms, Molly shivered. The warm summer breezes of the days before seemed to have fled for safer parts. Molly longingly wished she could. Without the roaring wind whipping around her face, the air felt oddly oppressive. Almost too calm. Like the calm before a storm, just waiting for the fury to be released. She shivered.  
  
"Stop moving," growled Mr. Douglass, shoving his elbow further into her stomach. The only thing that stopped Molly from trying to attack her father was a sudden rustling in the bushes. _There was no wind._ Quickly thinking that the rustling might be her rescue, Molly tried to distract her wily father.  
  
"Dad," she spat out, nearly choking on the word, "we're all dying to know how you managed to set fire to the Company building. It was a _nearly_ flawless plan, which I'm sure might interest the men here." Molly's frightened voice sounded loud, cutting through the silence.  
  
Mr. Douglass laughed, shaking Molly as well as himself. "Now, really, my darling daughter," he scoffed, "did you expect a confession?" He chortled again. "Well, one isn't coming. Ever so sorry to disappoint, but you know full well that you played a large part in that plan."  
  
Molly's voice was deadly calm. "I was barely eleven, Dad. I wasn't responsible for my actions. I did it out of loyalty to you and Mum ... loyalty which still haunts me. You brainwashed me, Dad, and you know it."  
  
Mr. Douglass, eyes twitching, opened his mouth to rebut. But before he could, a young, strong voice came floating out of seemingly nowhere. As the first word reached Molly's' ears, her heart seemed to stop -- her blood ran cold. The color flooded out of her face, leaving her white as the sheep who looked on. Because somehow, inexplicably, Molly knew that voice. It was hers.  
  
"I love you, Dad," the voice whispered, yet sounding to Molly like the clash of the heavens that echoed the truth of her past. She remained silent and simply listened "I have to lie in court?" The voice, tremulous, continued on. "But Dad, didn't you always teach me that lying was wrong? Dad?"  
  
Mimicking his daughter's face, Mr. Douglass had turned stark white at the sound. He stood stock still, his mouth slightly open, his eyes wide in terror. He trembled, like a leaf in the wind.  
  
"Stop it! Leave me alone! The past is dead! Dead!" Mr. Douglass's booming voice in her ears made Molly jump. "It wasn't my fault ... it wasn't ... leave me alone!" The last word echoed several times off of the mountains before finally dying away. Scarcely had the last echo faded when a short, yet tall, pudgy, yet muscular man stepped forward, scooping a wand off of the ground.  
  
"There's only one way for this to end, for all of us. Let my wife go, and face me like a man." Arthur Weasley's eyes were ablaze with fury, and his jaw was set. "Duel me, and we'll see if I can't make you join those you've destroyed in the past."  
  
There was a note of finality, of absolute resolution in his voice. Molly, shivering, tried to yell out. But she was frozen in fear, unable to scream out in her nightmare. She watched in terror as her father, face twitching and hands clenching and unclenching, slowly pulled his wand from her neck. Never removing his eyes from the face of Mr. Weasley, he released Molly. Realizing she was holding her breath, she gulped cool air. Mr. Douglass took a few steps away from his opponent's wife, the grass crunching softly under his feet.  
  
"We bow." Steady and determined, Mr. Weasley's voice rang in the air. He would do it -- for Molly.  
  
"We bow." Echoing him, Mr. Douglass locked eyes with his nemesis, little noticing that four more figures had joined the twelve actors in this bizarre play. Stealthily, as the two men bowed slightly, the four neared the captive Molly.  
  
"Run!" shouted Ron, and Molly did just that, her four rescuers sprinting across the clearing to where the path forked into three.  
  
"NO!" Mr. Douglass's roar shook the mountain, and he shook with uncontrollable fury. Quickly raising his wand hand to attack the nearest foe, he shouted, "Stupefy!"  
  
The spell whirled past Arthur's shoulder, narrowly missing him. Forgetting all but his beloved, Arthur ran like the wind to his wife and her rescuers. Hardly breathing in their haste, the group ran swiftly up the first of the three paths.  
  
"Quick! Duck!" yelled the Ministry investigator Eddings to the retreating figures, as another dangerous spell hurtled by Mr. Douglass nearly hit them. Old as he was, he covered ground quickly. His feet seemed hardly to touch the ground, and he reached the parting of the paths in hardly any time at all. Without a moments hesitation, Mr. Douglass leapt towards the third path.  
  
Sighing, Eddings turned to his men. "Come on, after them!" And with a nod, the well-bred, dignified Ministry men threw caution to the wind. Soon, the padding of their footsteps on the dusty second trail had faded away. The mountain stood as it had been before. There was no hint of the drama that had just occurred, save the urgency that hung in the air. The mountain, old as the earth itself, had seen many things in his time. He knew that the final act would be played out, if only he would have patience. He didn't have long to wait.  
  


***  
  


It was a cool August 31st, many years earlier, as Molly Douglass crept out of the opened window of the tiny cottage. Molly's skinny, eleven year-old body squeezed through the opening, and she fell to the ground, gasping with effort. Beside her lay the suitcase which she'd stuffed with all of her clothes, food, and a considerable amount of money lifted from her parents. Standing up and hardly making a sound, Molly stared at her home for what was to be the last time in quite a while.  
  
She sighed. The first few rays of sunlight crept over the mountain and painted the cottage a buttery yellow.   
  
"It's now or never," she whispered to herself. Slowly turning around, she left her home and its hateful occupants. Unbidden, a picture of her parents, smiling and laughing, flew to her mind. Molly narrowed her eyes and pushed it away, continuing into the dark unknown.  
  
As she reached the end of the path that led away from the cottage, the soft lavender flowers begged her for the last time to stay. To resign herself to years of obedience to her terrible parents, slave to the acts they had made her do.  
  
"No," thought Molly. She'd leave those things behind forever, and make a new life at Hogwarts. Smiling broadly, Molly stomped the tiny blossoms to a pulp.  
  


***  
  


The cheetah chasing after its prey has long been considered one of the fastest animals on earth.  
  
The cheetah never met Molly Weasley. Her feet slapping against the dirt, she fairly flew up the path with Arthur and the four teens in tow. One, two, three, breathe, one, two, three. As if to an invisible drummer, Molly's feet pounded out the rhythm for the others to follow. Sweat poured down her determined face, and her companions struggled to keep up. One, two, three, breathe, one, two, three. Molly knew all depended on their getting to the top first; there was a stone pillar at the summit -- an emergency portkey for stranded fell walkers -- that they could use to safely escape. A few precious seconds might be the difference between freedom and mortal peril.  
  
One, two, three, breathe, one, two, three. Molly led her allies around rocks as if by instinct, never breaking her magnificent stride. As Ginny at the tail side stepped the last rock, Molly thought she could see an end to the trail. With a final burst of speed that would rival the racing wind, Molly reached the top.  
  
For a few glorious seconds it seemed as if they had reached the summit the quickest. The area appeared completely empty but for the six people, bent double and gasping for breath.  
  
Reality soon set in. With a painful jolt in her stomach, Molly saw a hunched, lean figure step out from behind the stone pillar.  
  
"It certainly took you long enough," he said lazily, twiddling his wand. Mr. Douglass had not lived on the mountain many years without learning the swiftest route to the top. Molly whipped her head to look down the third path, hoping beyond hopes that the Ministry men might be charging up it.  
  
"Oh, you won't see them for quite a while," Mr. Douglass said silkily, following her glance. "Though why you'd want those spineless men is beyond me. No, dear, we're quite alone up here."  
  
Molly blinked back hot tears. He had won, _again_, just as he had years before. His evil ways had yet again placed Molly into his dirty hands. Cheating had stolen him yet another life. It was the end.  
  
"Lavender as the softest sunset," recited Ginny tremulously, suddenly stepping forward towards the scene despite the silent protests of her father, friends and brother. She swallowed and continued, with growing intensity.   
"Longingly the blossoms wave to the mountains beyond.  
And hope for the day when they too can join the nimble sheep  
Narrowly missing the cliff as they jump  
Behind the rocks old as the sky -- for  
Even flowers wish to be free.  
Released from guilt bending, crushing, crippling!  
Removed from the hut at the base of the mount.  
Instead, they wait, and guard the monsters within.  
Soon the winds will change." Ginny swallowed again, and stifled a sob.  
  
"It was you in the clearing, wasn't it?" breathed Molly, turning to face her approaching daughter. For as she listened to Ginny's words, she had heard herself in them. Ginny nodded her head slowly. "Has anyone ever told you we sound remarkably alike?" Molly smiled, and turned back to Mr. Douglass as the Ministry men finally charged up the end of the path. Suddenly cornered, wands staring him in the face, Mr. Douglass backed away.  
  
"I've won this time, Dad. Don't you see? You're trapped." Molly stared her father in the face, triumph written all over her features. "My children never run away from me, they've come to track me down. Their friends even care enough to help. My husband is willing to die for me, and that's all I'll ever need. I've got more people around to love me than you ever had and will, more than you deserve. It's over, there's no escape from justice." She stared at Mr Douglass for an instant, waiting on his reply. But to her surprise, a slow smile spread over his face.  
  
"Oh, but on the contrary, Molly, there is always an escape." From behind his back the gray haired Mr. Douglass pulled out his wand. "There is always an escape. And no matter what you tell yourself, you know you are to blame for broken lives." A harsh, cold laugh echoed from his lips. "You are to blame..." Still laughing maniacally, he disapperated without a trace.  
  
"He always was good at disappearing," whispered Molly, as her husband wrapped her in a long awaited hug. And as the curtain fell, the mountain applauded.  
***  
  
A/N: Nearly all of that was written in one two hour sitting! Believe it or not, that isn't the end. Not quite. The epilogue will answer a lot of questions I'm sure everyone has. So read on, and I hope you liked this! Please review!   
  
  



	10. ...Tied Up With Strings

A/N: Here it is! The END. Enjoy!  
***  
  
And then Molly Douglass reached down and picked up her old, tattered checkered apron. Her brows furrowed in thought, she rubbed her hands on the fabric, pulling it together. She looked up, and ate everyone in her stormy brown eyes. Ginny, who's voice so closely resembled hers; Ron, staring out at her with her own dark eyes; George and Fred, whose long noses were photo copies of her own. She saw Percy, forgetting cauldron bottoms and remembering only the mother who had once clipped him round the ear for answering her back. He'd learnt his lesson. Bill twisted a finger in his hair, and Charlie's thin mouth, shaped just like her own, was pulled into a line. Harry and Hermione, who were nearly her children, watched her with wide eyes.  
  
And finally, Arthur. Arthur, who had taken her from a family of anger and hate and helped her make one bursting with love. Arthur, who still sent her love letters, and held her hand when she was lonely during the long school year. Arthur, who had valiantly offered his life for her against her father.  
  
Molly fingered the soft fabric another moment, then pulled it over her head. At that moment, Molly Douglass died, and Molly Weasley was reborn. She smiled suddenly, and everyone knew that she had finally come home for good.  
***  
  
A/N: Well, that's it. The end. It's kind of funny, but I'm going to miss writing this monster. :) It was a great ride, thank in part to everyone who's ever encouraged, reviewed, or helped me. Without you guys, this wouldn't have been possible.  
  
I'm sorry to say that I have no plans of ever writing a sequel to this. I know, I know. But I really can't see how I could possibly continue it. Don't worry, this isn't the last you'll hear from Molly Weasley. And it won't be the last drama you'll see from Mandy. *grins* Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it! Leave your thoughts in that little box down there. ^_^  



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